I met with a fairly new client this week. I've never seen him awake, really. He's always been sleeping or unresponsive. He does have several family members who, although they seem to rarely get along, are very loyal to him and are around pretty much constantly. They are the ones who actually requested my visit this week. They connect very well with the music and are able to release their emotions through singing and talking about their father between songs.
When I got there this time, true to tradition, he was sleeping. He had recently been placed on RLC care, which is a designation we give to people who the nurses feel are imminent, or close to being to it. His family hadn't seen him awake for quite some time. He had 2 daughters with him and they began sharing memories, singing with me, and shedding some tears. Although it was hard emotionally, it was actually why I got in hospice care. Then, the coolest part happened. He started to wake up. When I left, he had his eyes open and he said the only thing I've heard him say: "Thank you, buddy. I enjoyed it." It was really touching to me. It meant that: a] he had heard me and b] he used whatever limited energy he had to let me know my visit meant a lot to him.
I think that people have all heard stories of other people who "come to" for a brief moment when it seems they never will. It's something completely different, though, when you're there to experience it. Chalk it up to another great reason I love my job!
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
One More Session
Every once in a while, a nurse gives me a call and asks me to see a client who has taken a quick decline. Many times, patients who need extra support are given an "RLC" or "Radical Loving Care" designation for a short time. This is texted out to everybody in the office so they know who needs the extra help at that time. We all try to make it there, but I'm not always able to be there before they die. Many times, that is the end result of RLC, but sometimes the decline levels off and they may not need they extra support as much as initially thought. On Monday, I got the call before the text was even sent out, so I know it was important for the client and family that I be there, so first thing I did was stop there. This is the client who I spoke of in Play One More. When I got there, there were 3 daughters and some of their children, as well as the client's pastor. That is always a big red flag for me. Pastors always have people to see and things to do, despite all the jokes implying they only work for one hour on Sundays. If a pastor is just sitting in a chair in the dining room, waiting for something to happen, then I always assume something will happen soon. I got set up in the patient's bedroom [she lived in her own home] and invited everyone into the room. I wanted this to be a group session. I wanted to not only help the client relax [something she was not very good at in the past], but also to allow the family to communicate with the client, share stories, and feel the support that they were all providing for each other.
It started off with the family members showing little interest in being a part of music. Despite my encouragement, I was pretty much singing alone to the client. I began to engage the family more by asking them questions, specifically about music and their mother. They all seemed to recall a song she enjoyed, a story of the her dancing, or [for those that were there for my previous sessions] how she would light up during our sessions. This began a nice time of sharing and music. People would talk about songs she liked and I would play the ones I had. While playing, though, only one other person was singing. The only time I got them to sing was on the last song, "Jesus Loves Me." I set up by saying, "I can really feel the love you have for your mother. She's so lucky to have you here with her. This is an important time to spend with her and I know that she knows you're here. I know she's very happy you're with her. Let's sing this one like we're taking her place for a moment, thinking about what she's feeling right now." We started singing and everybody else joined it, tearfully making their way through that familiar tune. Even the pastor was getting misty, which speaks volumes about his connection and dedication to this family. After this, I tried to encourage them, told them to call with any concerns or changes, and left.
The patient died about an hour after I left. I will remember her fondly, as someone who walked in the first time assuming I'd be kicked out and was really welcomed with open arms, both in a literal and figurative sense. I hope Lillian's family knows how much their mother meant to everybody who got to see her.
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New to the music therapy blogosphere is The Traveling Songstress. Check out her new blog and give her some support!
It started off with the family members showing little interest in being a part of music. Despite my encouragement, I was pretty much singing alone to the client. I began to engage the family more by asking them questions, specifically about music and their mother. They all seemed to recall a song she enjoyed, a story of the her dancing, or [for those that were there for my previous sessions] how she would light up during our sessions. This began a nice time of sharing and music. People would talk about songs she liked and I would play the ones I had. While playing, though, only one other person was singing. The only time I got them to sing was on the last song, "Jesus Loves Me." I set up by saying, "I can really feel the love you have for your mother. She's so lucky to have you here with her. This is an important time to spend with her and I know that she knows you're here. I know she's very happy you're with her. Let's sing this one like we're taking her place for a moment, thinking about what she's feeling right now." We started singing and everybody else joined it, tearfully making their way through that familiar tune. Even the pastor was getting misty, which speaks volumes about his connection and dedication to this family. After this, I tried to encourage them, told them to call with any concerns or changes, and left.
The patient died about an hour after I left. I will remember her fondly, as someone who walked in the first time assuming I'd be kicked out and was really welcomed with open arms, both in a literal and figurative sense. I hope Lillian's family knows how much their mother meant to everybody who got to see her.
---
New to the music therapy blogosphere is The Traveling Songstress. Check out her new blog and give her some support!
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
First Mom, Now Dad
I have a little extra time tonight and, although there are other things I could be doing, I felt like writing a bit tonight. It is rare for me to do a mi-week post, so I hope you enjoy it.
Today I did an assessment with a gentleman who has quite a remarkable story. He's actually the husband of a client I had last summer, but only saw once. Apparently, the client told her daughter about me and the daughter was there today. She was excited to meet me, share in this session, and tell me about her father. The client is a member of a small Christian congregation that is very conservative ["They make Baptists look liberal"], small ["They meet in each other homes, like Amish"], and pacifist. Despite all this, the client is fiercely patriotic and served as front line medic and dentist in WWII. He refused to carry a gun, but still wanted to serve his country. He did this all on an 8th-grade education. At one point, the battalion he was with overtook a Japanese village. As they were basically making POW camp, he met and talked with a young man of the village that caught his attention as a bright boy. He convinced his CO to let him take this 16-year old under his wing and tutor him. He taught the boy to be a medic, and now he's a doctor in Japan. He still keeps in touch with my client, calling almost everyday to check on him once he heard of his hospice admission. Now, it was my turn to take care of this man who saved this young man's life.
He was very anxious and agitated. I played some traditional folk for him while his daughter held his hands, waved them around like dancing, and clapped them together. This engaged him in the music, which I'm not sure he would have done without his daughters' instincts. I gradually slowed the music down and he began to calm down, eventually falling asleep. As his daughter, son, and I talked, he began to rouse, in much high spirits than before his very short nap. Then I used the music to give him a little energy. I started playing more uptempo tunes, always trying to keep him engaged and redirect him whenever he began to become anxious. By the end, was calm but not too lethargic, which was great to see.
There was a moment that I loved seeing during the session. The daughter, admitting that she is a "crier", was wiping tears away at one point and the client inquired, "What's wrong?" She stated, "I'm just a little sad." "Why?" "Because you're sick." "Don't worry about that. Don't you have a job to do?" "I do, Dad. It's taking care of you." "Well, thank you."
I don't think I need to say much more about the session. I think that last little conversation sums up the session quite well. It's so special to be able to see those memories take place and makes the work worth doing.
Today I did an assessment with a gentleman who has quite a remarkable story. He's actually the husband of a client I had last summer, but only saw once. Apparently, the client told her daughter about me and the daughter was there today. She was excited to meet me, share in this session, and tell me about her father. The client is a member of a small Christian congregation that is very conservative ["They make Baptists look liberal"], small ["They meet in each other homes, like Amish"], and pacifist. Despite all this, the client is fiercely patriotic and served as front line medic and dentist in WWII. He refused to carry a gun, but still wanted to serve his country. He did this all on an 8th-grade education. At one point, the battalion he was with overtook a Japanese village. As they were basically making POW camp, he met and talked with a young man of the village that caught his attention as a bright boy. He convinced his CO to let him take this 16-year old under his wing and tutor him. He taught the boy to be a medic, and now he's a doctor in Japan. He still keeps in touch with my client, calling almost everyday to check on him once he heard of his hospice admission. Now, it was my turn to take care of this man who saved this young man's life.
He was very anxious and agitated. I played some traditional folk for him while his daughter held his hands, waved them around like dancing, and clapped them together. This engaged him in the music, which I'm not sure he would have done without his daughters' instincts. I gradually slowed the music down and he began to calm down, eventually falling asleep. As his daughter, son, and I talked, he began to rouse, in much high spirits than before his very short nap. Then I used the music to give him a little energy. I started playing more uptempo tunes, always trying to keep him engaged and redirect him whenever he began to become anxious. By the end, was calm but not too lethargic, which was great to see.
There was a moment that I loved seeing during the session. The daughter, admitting that she is a "crier", was wiping tears away at one point and the client inquired, "What's wrong?" She stated, "I'm just a little sad." "Why?" "Because you're sick." "Don't worry about that. Don't you have a job to do?" "I do, Dad. It's taking care of you." "Well, thank you."
I don't think I need to say much more about the session. I think that last little conversation sums up the session quite well. It's so special to be able to see those memories take place and makes the work worth doing.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Story - "He Came Through Like Gangbusters"
It seems that my blog, lately, has become mainly a collection of stories from my work. I never really intended it to become so, but I don't think I mind it. I guess sometimes the best way to illustrate what I do is to see [or in this case, read] it in action. I hope that these stories do not sound vain, as I am truly not meaning to boast in myself, but to give a brief glimpse into the world of music therapy and hospice.
That being said, this story happened in my internship at CarePartners Hospice in Asheville, NC. My wife and I still miss it there and we hope to visit again soon, but no real plans. The client I was visiting was named Helen. She was fairly young by hospice standards, only in her early sixties. She and her husband were always welcoming to me, although, if I am going to be honest, they really intimidated me at first. Until that point, I could pretty much assume that the people I visited would want to hear either hymns, country, or Lawrence Welk-style tunes. Helen and her husband, however, loved music from the 60's and 70's. Learning Jim Croce, Chicago, Bob Dylan, and Pete Seeger was fun, but much different than what I had been playing. I slowly started adding them into my repertoire.
Although every session was pretty good, I vividly remember one session in particular. Helen's husband was not there, although he usually was, and I was enjoying talking with Helen. I steered the conversation to her husband, intending to get her to talk about him and process her anticipatory grief. She felt as though she was leaving him. In a segue, I played "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce and she broke down crying. If this were to happen now, I would feel comfortable confronting it a little more efficiently, but at that time, I was not. I finished the song and we both just sat there, staring at the floor. After what seemed like several minutes, she broke the silence. She explained that "Time in a Bottle" made her think of her husband and she began to explain her emotions. For several years, she said, she wondered whether or not she had made right decision to be with him. Just as she began to regret her decision, she was diagnosed with cancer. Helen said, through tears, that "he came through like gangbusters for me." She knew, after that event, that she had, indeed, made the absolute perfect decision.
About a week or two later, Helen had a pretty fast decline and was declared "imminent" by her nurse, which means that the rest of her life could most likely be counted in hours, not days. I visited her and it was hard. She was once very full of life, but now she was unresponsive. Her husband, as well as her daughter, were there by her side, and agreed to let me sing for her. I hesitated before leafing past Jim Croce and decided to go for it. I told Helen's husband of our conversation earlier and how much his being there meant to her. As I started to play the song, everyone in the room [myself included], began to cry. We were all going to miss Helen very much. I finished my session and left. She died an hour later.
I guess this still is a strong memory for me, because I'm on the verge of tears again while I recount this story. Tears are not always a bad thing, despite what our culture may say about them. They are not weakness, they are not evil. They are natural, as natural as the love any one person can have for another. They are an outpouring of emotions that cannot be expressed in words, although music may come close. Tears are one way that I know what I do really matters.
That being said, this story happened in my internship at CarePartners Hospice in Asheville, NC. My wife and I still miss it there and we hope to visit again soon, but no real plans. The client I was visiting was named Helen. She was fairly young by hospice standards, only in her early sixties. She and her husband were always welcoming to me, although, if I am going to be honest, they really intimidated me at first. Until that point, I could pretty much assume that the people I visited would want to hear either hymns, country, or Lawrence Welk-style tunes. Helen and her husband, however, loved music from the 60's and 70's. Learning Jim Croce, Chicago, Bob Dylan, and Pete Seeger was fun, but much different than what I had been playing. I slowly started adding them into my repertoire.
Although every session was pretty good, I vividly remember one session in particular. Helen's husband was not there, although he usually was, and I was enjoying talking with Helen. I steered the conversation to her husband, intending to get her to talk about him and process her anticipatory grief. She felt as though she was leaving him. In a segue, I played "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce and she broke down crying. If this were to happen now, I would feel comfortable confronting it a little more efficiently, but at that time, I was not. I finished the song and we both just sat there, staring at the floor. After what seemed like several minutes, she broke the silence. She explained that "Time in a Bottle" made her think of her husband and she began to explain her emotions. For several years, she said, she wondered whether or not she had made right decision to be with him. Just as she began to regret her decision, she was diagnosed with cancer. Helen said, through tears, that "he came through like gangbusters for me." She knew, after that event, that she had, indeed, made the absolute perfect decision.
About a week or two later, Helen had a pretty fast decline and was declared "imminent" by her nurse, which means that the rest of her life could most likely be counted in hours, not days. I visited her and it was hard. She was once very full of life, but now she was unresponsive. Her husband, as well as her daughter, were there by her side, and agreed to let me sing for her. I hesitated before leafing past Jim Croce and decided to go for it. I told Helen's husband of our conversation earlier and how much his being there meant to her. As I started to play the song, everyone in the room [myself included], began to cry. We were all going to miss Helen very much. I finished my session and left. She died an hour later.
I guess this still is a strong memory for me, because I'm on the verge of tears again while I recount this story. Tears are not always a bad thing, despite what our culture may say about them. They are not weakness, they are not evil. They are natural, as natural as the love any one person can have for another. They are an outpouring of emotions that cannot be expressed in words, although music may come close. Tears are one way that I know what I do really matters.
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